


The Origins of Anarchaia

by Soule



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Anger/Angst, Denial
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-17 08:33:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9313718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soule/pseuds/Soule
Summary: Successor to "The Day I Died", these accounts follow either Anarchaia or Khadgar as she's returned to the land of the living and offered a position as the understudy to the Archmage.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> These works are canon to the "Adventures of Grimory and Anarchaia" storyline.

                She awoke, unsure of where she was. Her right eye throbbed. Her left arm and legs both ached. She groaned. Her body protested with heavy muscles and pain when she tried to move. “Where am I?”

                “Oh, you’re awake again,” said a voice, feminine and low to the ground. “I’ll alert Archmage Khadgar.”

                Small footsteps left the room and Anarchaia clenched her eyes shut. The room wasn’t particularly bright but it hurt all the same. “Khadgar…?” She lay there for a long while, listening, taking in the sounds of her surroundings while allowing her sensitive eyes to adjust to the light filtering through her eyelids. Wherever she was, it was quiet. A fireplace crackled somewhere. Scattered conversation came and went outside the room she was in. Eventually heavy footfalls filled the quiet, leading up to the spot beside her bed.

                Anarchaia opened her eyes, feeling the strain of her red pupils dilating.

                A man’s bright blue eyes scanned her face warily when he stopped to look down at her. The slightest of smiles pulled at his lips, framed by hazelnut five o’clock shadow. A purplish bruise marred one of his prominent cheekbones. “How are you feeling?”

                “Are you really Archmage Khadgar?” Her voice strained through the ache of her limbs and skull.

                “I am.” He sat beside her, the bedsheets crumpling beneath him. The scales of his cloak chimed. “What can I call you?”

                “What happened to your face?”

                He seemed surprised that his question had been answered with another. “You were…rather violent the last time you awoke.”

                “I’m sorry,” she said automatically, not stopping to think about the implications of what he’d said. A sparkle flashed within her mind and her eyes widened slightly. “Where am I?”

                “The Hall of the Guardian.” The cautious look upon his rugged face turned to that of alarm when Anarchaia attempted to sit up. “You should rest-“

                She jerked back slightly as she lifted her torso. Her wrists held fast to something she could not feel. “Why am I…tied…?” Her voice trailed off as she turned to look at what was binding her to the bedposts behind her. Invisible shackles made of simple energy held her wrists snugly. When her eyes reached her hand, however, her shoulders went rigid.

                Khadgar quickly stood lest she somehow break free and allow history to repeat itself. He grit his teeth when she released a small rasp from the back of her throat.

                “No,” she breathed, her head whirling to look at her other hand. “No no no no no.” Bones. Her fingers were nothing but bones. Not only that but huge, ugly stitches covered her upper left arm and her once porcelain skin had taken on a sickly blue. Tears burned in the corners of her left eye. All the memories flooded her simultaneously. Spook. Her mother under the magnolias. The blade plunging into her skull. The cleaver. “Why?” Her pale blue eye met Khadgar’s, glittering.

                “I can explain if you’d-“

                “ _WHY?_ ” A stream of tears trickled down her one cheek. Anger and sadness boiled within her, churning into a maelstrom of emotion she’d lost control over.

                Khadgar’s thick eyebrows furrowed upward toward his hairline and he sighed. He’d expected this, but that hadn’t made it easier.

                “You have to kill me,” Anarchaia said with chilling clarity, the dim red light within her empty socket vibrating as her vision flicked back and forth between his eyes.

                “I’d rather-“  
                She lunged forward, the bedposts creaking but refusing to release her. “ _Please._ ” Her white hair hung messily in her face, sticking to her cheeks where it’d come into contact with her tears. It was clear she was doing all she could to not break down. “I don’t…I don’t want to be this…” Her shoulders shook. “I can’t…I won’t.” The chords in her neck protruded tightly beneath her skin. Her breathing increased and her chest heaved. The dam was breaking.

 

                Seeing this, Khadgar turned and made his way back to the door.

                Anarchaia cried out after him. “Wait! Come back!” The anger quickly overpowered the sorrow and she growled. “ _GET BACK HERE AND KILL ME!!”_ Manic shrieks filled the room, bouncing off the bookshelves and ringing through the floating candles.

                The screaming was only slightly stifled when Khadgar closed the door behind him.

                “Not taking it well?” Meryl Felstorm rubbed at one of his ears as he made his way by, trekking down the spiraling stairwell.

                Khadgar fell into step with him and sighed heavily once again. “I’m afraid not. Perhaps you could speak to her?”

                “And tell her what? You forget I’ve not been in her situation.”

                “I know but you’re the closest to the Undead of any of us, Meryl.”

                “Why are you trying so hard for this girl? Why not just kill her as per her request?”

                Khadgar hesitated, searching for the proper words. Shrieking could still be heard from the top of the stairs behind him. “We were too late in rescuing her, but…the presence of her power still lingered, even in her broken corpse. She has great promise.”

                “As what? A mage?”

                “Yes. Perhaps even an Archmage.”

                Meryl snorted. “Well it’s ultimately your time you’re wasting I suppose. I won’t say I warned you when she turns out to be nothing.”

                Khadgar slowed to a stop, allowing Meryl to continue on. He mulled over his most recent decisions. Doubt filled him and he rubbed at the bruise on his cheek.

 

***

 

                The next morning Khadgar stretched as he climbed the spiral stairway. Perhaps allowing her an entire day to cope alone was too much but it certainly couldn’t have been too little, he’d thought. He smoothed his hair back with one large, gloved hand and clutched Atiesh in the other. The sofa in the communal library had not been forgiving on his aging bones.

                The Draenei that’d been tasked with guarding Anarchaia the previous night gave a curt nod at the sight of him but otherwise looked somewhat disgruntled. “She’s calmed down,” he said in his otherworldly accent, “but she’s learned she can set things on fire without the use of her hands.”

                Khadgar’s eyes widened in concern and he quickly grasped the door handle. “Has she destroyed anything?”

                “No,” the mage responded stepping aside. “She sets things ablaze but they don’t seem to be burning.” He motioned to one of the tendrils hanging from his jaw – red and blistered. “Burns flesh, nonetheless.”

                “Go get that healed.” A slight scowl crossed Khadgar’s face. “And next time someone becomes aware of their pyrokinesis in _my personal quarters_ and you happen to be keeping watch, do come get me if it isn’t too much?”

                The Draenei man flushed. “Y-Yes sir…sorry.”

                Khadgar threw open the door and a wall of heat washed over him. The walls of his bedroom were encased in fire, but, as the room guard had said, nothing was burning. Irked, he tapped the base of his staff against the rug beneath him and from the point of impact burst forth a gust of frigid air. The winds filled the room, swirling and snuffing out every flame. He sighed and ran a hand over his face. Second thoughts grew louder within him.

                He stepped up to the slightly raised platform upon which his bed stood.

Anarchaia lay motionless beneath the blankets, arms still spread above her head. She stared adamantly at the canopy above, not looking in his direction.

                “Are you going to kill me yet?” she asked, her voice heavy with wear. She was tired. That was good.

                “I had a proposition for you, actually.”

                Her one good eye rolled to meet his gaze.

                Khadgar held up a palm and, in a crackle of purple smoke, a rolled piece of parchment appeared wrapped within his fingers. “I have here a numerology puzzle.”

                Her thin, white eyebrows furrowed. “A puzzle.”

                “Yes.” He unraveled the paper, revealing a long, long block of numbers followed by a one-line equation at the bottom of the page. “If you can solve it, we’ll honor whatever request you make.”

                Her eyes – both magical and flesh – scanned over the ink for a lengthy moment. “And if I don’t?”

                “You have to stay and serve under me as my apprentice.” The paper suddenly burst into flame and Khadgar quickly extinguished it with his own magic, doing his best to keep collected. He clenched his jaw, knowing she’d done it to fluster him. He refused to show that his patience was being tested. “Or you can pass up my offer and leave, wandering the lands contemplating how to destroy yourself.”

                The bindings on her wrists fell into nothingness and Anarchaia quickly sat up, rubbing at the area they’d been around. After a moment of hesitation, she pushed her side-swept hair out of her eyes and reached for the paper. The parchment nearly slipped from her new, fleshless fingers. She swallowed and a long string of silence followed.

“I’ll need a quill,” she finally mumbled from between dry lips.

                A drawer in the bedstand opened and a quill and inkwell levitated out, coming to rest gently on the table top.

                “How long?” she growled.

                “Oh, let’s say…twenty-four hours?”

                Anarchaia pursed her lips and scratched at the stitches on her forehead. “Forty-eight.”

                “Thirty-six.”

                “Fine.” She swung her legs over the bedside, her feet dangling nearly a foot above the floor below. Her bloody clothes had been replaced with plain pajamas – brown woolen pants and a white linen tank top. “And if I solve this, you’ll kill me.” It was more of a statement than a question, as if she were talking to herself.

                “Correct. I’ll leave the door unlocked so you can leave whenever you’d like.”

                Her eye welled with tears once again. He imagined she was weighing her options.

                She sniffled. “Okay…”

                Khadgar’s fingers twitched. Something within him pulled for him to comfort her, but he didn’t. “Good luck.” And there he left her, closing the door quietly in his wake. It’d be another night in the library for him.

 

***

               

                With a steaming mug of coffee in one gloved hand and his aching spine in the other, Khadgar trekked his way yet again up the spiral staircase to his bedroom. As he reached the door he realized he wasn’t entirely sure what it is he’d hoped to see on the other side. Perhaps she’d left and he’d have to continue his search for an understudy. Or perhaps his walls were burning again. Or both. He sighed and pushed the door open.

                The bed was empty but neatly made. He sipped at his burning hot coffee and picked up the rolled parchment left on the bedstand. To his dismay, nothing had been written. The quill remained where he’d left it, dry. Khadgar tossed the paper back onto the table, saddened yet relieved that the ordeal was over.

                “Anarchaia.” Her familiar voice echoed through his tall, circular room.

                He turned in the direction he’d heard it to find her high above, woven through the rungs of his book ladder, facing outward, legs and torso wedged between the steps, using it as a chair.

                “Is that what you’d like me to call you?”

                “Ana is fine. Four syllables is kind of a lot.” She closed the book within her hands, pushing it back into the empty slot behind her without looking.

                He set his cup down. “You didn’t complete the equation.”

                There came a long silence.

                “I suppose I didn’t.”

                There came another.

                Anarchaia swung her legs idly, her heels tapping the rungs below. “I’m sorry…for everything.”

                He was surprised at how quickly she’d come to acceptance. “It’s quite all right.”

                “No. It’s not.” Grasping the rung pressing against her chest, she pushed her legs out and dangled for a moment before dropping to the floor with a light _thud_. “I don’t want to be this.” She peered at him from the shadows behind the ladder, hair in her face. “But I don’t want to be someone I’m not, either. Please accept my apologies.”

                “If you don’t mind my asking, what is the decision you’ve come to?” Khadgar sat upon his bed, the feathers inside ruffling beneath his weight.

                She stepped out from behind the ladder, taking up a seat within the window nook between the ceiling-high bookshelves. The moonlight from outside left a halo of cyan around her pristine hair. “I don’t want to die.” Anarchaia grasped one of the dusty pillows from the corner of the nook and hugged it tightly to her breast. She pulled her knees up and glanced down at her now skeletal toes. “Not right now, anyway.”

                “You rather enjoy skirting around straightforward answers.” He smiled slightly and took another drink of his coffee.

                “I’ll be your apprentice.”

                Khadgar gave a hum of a laugh into his mug, happy to win a power struggle he hadn’t anticipated starting.

                “But you have to answer any questions I have,” she continued, tapping the bones of her fingers against the bones of her toes, seemingly fascinated by the noise.

                “That generally comes with the title of _Mentor_ ,” he responded.

                “The first of which is: Why?”

                “Why you?”

                Anarchaia nodded, her red pupil locking onto his face and sending a chill up the back of his neck.

                “You were quite clearly dead when my caravan and I found you.” He cupped his free hand around his mug, leaning forward slightly and placing an ankle upon a knee. “But as we…gathered…you...” Khadgar cleared his throat. The memories clearly made him uncomfortable. “There remained a residual _aura_ , if you will. One I’ve yet to come across.” He brought the mug again to his lips. “Especially in a corpse.”

                “So I’m special.”

                “That’s a word to use, I suppose.”

                “That’s stupid.”

                He furrowed his brow and glanced at her incredulously, nearly choking on his beverage. “I’m sorry?”

                “That’s stupid,” she repeated, louder. “Because I’m albino? A _ghost child_?” She emphasized the colloquialism with air quotes.

                “I didn’t say that. Personally I believe it to be coincidence that your power runs alongside superstition.”

                Anarchaia lowered her hands, taken aback. “I just find it hard to believe that I’m so different.”

                “Why is that?”

                “I was born different _looking_ …and now this too?” She hugged the throw pillow tighter. “It’s like a poorly written novel.”

                Khadgar chuckled. “I can see why you’d think that.” He finished the contents in his mug and set it aside once more. “How old are – er – _were_ you?”

                “How old are _you_?”

                He tilted his head. “Not as old as I look.”

                “Me, either.”

                He laughed again, genuinely tickled by her wit. “We’re going to get along just fine, you and I.”


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These timelines are LOOSELY based on Warcraft lore. I can't be bothered to put in the hours it would take to research this stuff so I'm doing my best.

                “First order of business…” Khadgar strode to the edge of the large octagonal room he’d taken her to and began rummaging through a large oaken cabinet among the racks of staves and tomes. The setting sun filtered in through the tall, tall windows that took up nearly every wall save for two. After a moment he turned, a long, untouched candle between his thumb and forefinger.

                “It’s pretty bright in here already,” Anarchaia mumbled, rubbing a palm over the stitches on her left arm.

                A stool unsettled itself from a different wall and, encased in purple light, was placed in the center of the room. Khadgar gingerly placed the candle on the midpoint of its surface. It wobbled for a second and eventually came to a rest. “Light this candle.”

                Anarchaia furrowed her brow and tugged at the hem of her borrowed linen shirt. “Okay.”

                “But,” he held up a finger and a small, somewhat smug grin played at his lips. “You can’t knock it over.”

                “I could just melt the base so it doesn’t fall over,” she muttered again, tapping her bare heel against the cold marble floor.

                “You can’t do that, either.” His smile waned. “But I appreciate you telling me before you cheat.”

                “I like to be honest.”

                He _humm_ ed, resting his arms behind his back. “Virtuous. Not sure how far it’ll get you on this particular test but still a great practice.”

                “Can I get closer?”

                “If you feel you need to.”

                Anarchaia took a few steps toward the candle until the tip of the wick came more into focus. She brushed her hair from her empty eye socket so the dim red light within it could continue unobscured. Taking in a deep breath, she flicked her wrist toward the tip of the wick as if throwing a playing card.

                Khadgar flinched and took a step back as the entirety of the candle exploded in a shower of embers and hot wax. He wiped a bit from his tunic and produced another candle seemingly from thin air, setting it on the stool.

                Slightly irked at her own failure, Anarchaia folded her arms tightly across her chest. “Why did you have to get the first one out of the cabinet, but not the second?”

                “Conjuring.”

                “I can see that. I’m asking why.”

                “Nothing can be created from nothing. The easiest manner of conjuring is to merely take something from somewhere. One needs to know where this _somewhere_ happens to be, however. Now that I know there are a number of candles in the cabinet,” he held up his hand again, another candle filling the space between his thumb and index finger, “I can take one.” Just as it had appeared, the candle disappeared with a fizzle. “Or replace it.”

                Her good eye sparkled. “I’ve…been wondering how to do that for the longest time.”

                “Beginning to find the silver lining to this then, are we?” He smiled for only a moment before the second candle also burst into hot droplets of wax. Conjuring another candle, he set it down and opted to instead stand behind her near the back wall.

                Anarchaia grunted in frustration. “Why is this so hard?”

                “You’ve only tried twice.”

                She ground her teeth. “Yeah, but…”

                “Are you not used to failure?”

                The ‘f’ word made her cock her head so quickly that her hair fell in her face once again. “No.”

                He lifted his thick, chestnut eyebrows. “You _are_ honest.”

                Turning determinedly back to the third candle, Anarchaia rested her balled fists at her sides. She narrowed her eyes and focused hard on the slightly bent wick. This time, however, instead of exploding entirely, a ball of flame engulfed the upper half of the stick, melting it down to a stump in seconds.

                “An improvement,” her mentor mused from behind her.

                “Not good enough.” 

                “You won’t master anything in one day, Ana.”

                “Lighting a simple candle doesn’t qualify as _mastering_ ,” she hissed, her shoulders rigid. “It’s an action – a task. _I can do it._ ”

                Khadgar sighed and took a seat in one of the wooden chairs propped against the wall. He nestled an elbow into his knee and rested his cheek in his palm. “Perhaps something smaller to start with-?”

                “No.” Anarchaia stomped over to the cabinet and threw it open. She took one of the many candles within and returned to the stool, slamming it down on the seat. “I’ve materialized ice from water vapor. I’ve lifted mugs and steins with nothing more than will. _I can light a candle._ ” A few paces away she turned and growled, arms still stiff at her sides.

                When the fourth met with the same demise as the third, she cried out in frustration before kicking the stool over completely and screeching obscenities.

                Khadgar lifted his head from his hand ever so slightly when a candle materialized within Anarchaia’s bony fingers. _She can’t light a candle but is able to conjure on the first attempt?_ he thought, baffled by her seemingly erratic learning curve.

Holding it at arm’s length, she glared at the wick intently. The wax around it melted away instead, dripping down her fingers and onto the floor.

                This conjure-destroy-conjure cycle went on until even the sun had grown tired of waiting and decided to retire for the night. Hours had passed. Candles melted. The stool was kicked over and replaced.

With a heavy sigh Khadgar stood and ran a palm over his silver-flecked auburn hair. “I think it best we pick up tomorrow.” He yawned. “Your sleeping quarters aren’t fully furnished yet but I believe your bed has been placed.”

                “I’m going to stay here for a little while longer.”

                “If you insist. Sorry your first lesson couldn’t begin at an earlier time.”

                “It doesn’t matter to me what time we do things as I’ve got a surplus of it now.” She glanced at him over her shoulder, her blue-and-red eye glittering with rage and determination. “Good night, Mister Khadgar.”

 

 

                Birds sang happily outside as the sun rose for a new day. Beams washed into the halls through stained glass. Students and teachers alike filtered into the hallways for breakfast and conversation.

                Elated to have slept in his own bed again, Khadgar poured himself a mug of lukewarm water. Using his own magic to heat it until it steamed, he threw in a bag of chamomile and lemon while simultaneously snatching a piece of warm toast from the warming table on his way out of the Mess Hall. A number of peers had gathered around the long tables and the air was filled with the dull drone of tired banter, and Khadgar was forced to weave through him.

                “How’s your new student, Khadgar?” Meryl’s blank white eyes gazed out from behind the cover of a novella as he sat, feet propped upon the bench across from his table.

                Khadgar swallowed his bite of toast. “Determined. Already showing signs of success.”

                “Haven’t seen her around this morning…and I’m always the first awake.”

                “Perhaps she’s still asleep.”

                “The dead don’t sleep.” Meryl lowered his book. “Maybe she gave up.”

                Lifting his eyebrows and giving a breathy laugh into his tea, Khadgar strode past him. “Somehow I doubt that,” he mumbled.

                Nodding curt ‘good mornings’ to passersby, he made his way to the newly reappointed bedroom his previous apprentices had stayed in. After stuffing the remaining bite of his toast in his mouth, Khadgar rapped his knuckles gently on the large wooden door and waited. When no one answered after a second, louder attempt, he pushed it open to find the room barren save for the nearly empty bookshelves that lined the walls and the four-poster bed that sat near the far end, untouched.

                A slight rush in his steps, Khadgar returned to the Sparring Hall on the third floor. He pushed his way inside and stopped abruptly in his tracks. The stool from the night before had been returned to its upright position for the umpteenth time but was nearly unrecognizable inside a mountain of melted and re-hardened wax. At the peak, however, stood a single, intact candle, the tip of the wick burning peacefully as the wax around its base sparkled in the rising sunlight.

                “I did it…”

                He turned his head to find Anarchaia slumped in one of the chairs against the wall, her head against the backrest and arms dangling over the sides beneath the armrests. Her hair was a mess where she’d clearly been pulling at it.

                “Eight hours and thirty-seven minutes – not including the four hours spent before you went to bed.” She smiled tiredly up at him. “But I did it.” She laughed a breathless laugh. “And not a moment too soon because it was the last one.”

                Khadgar glanced from her to the pile of wax and blinked. “I…” He didn’t know what to feel. “Impressive.” His set his mug on an end table near the doorway. “Truly.”

                The chair creaked loudly as she pushed herself out of it. Her bones crackled and popped as she stretched, making her teacher cringe. “So what’s next?”

                His blue eyes flicked back to her. “ _Next?_ ” he inquired incredulously.

                “Uh huh.”

                “Rest, ostensibly.” He pushed the door behind him closed to give them some privacy. “I greatly appreciate your willingness to learn but, Ana, you should take a break.”

                “But I’ve been sitting here doing nothing for forty-five minutes. That’s break enough for me.”

                “Aren’t you tired?”

                “No – well yes but I don’t feel like sleeping.”

                A silence grew and passed between them – something they both began to assume would happen regularly between them.

                Finally, Khadgar furrowed his brow and motioned for her to follow. “Come.”

                She obliged and her toes clacked quietly on the stone below. “Where?”

                “The Mess Hall. We can construct a lesson plan over breakfast. You should eat something.”

                Anarchaia stopped abruptly. “D-Downstairs?”

                The lack of the sound of her footsteps caused him to turn and stop himself. “Yes, downstairs.”

                She hesitated and slowly wrapped her arms about herself. “I don’t want to.”

                Taken aback, he tilted his head. “May I ask why?”

                Anarchaia paused again. She bit her lip and glanced out the window beside her. “I don’t…” Tears stung her sinuses and she closed her eyes tightly. She sniffled and lowered her head to hide her face behind her hair. “I don’t want everyone to see me.” She used the back of a wrist to wipe a tear from her cheek, the humiliation of crying in public creeping through her. A duo of students passed, talking quietly between themselves and she grit her teeth, turning more towards the window.

                He opened his mouth to inquire further but in the end Khadgar simply frowned. “That’s fine. Have you been to your room yet?”

                She shook her head. “I know where it is, though.”

                “We’ll go there for now, then.” He turned and made his way up the hallway in the opposite direction.

                Anarchaia sniffled again and followed closely behind, making an effort to put her teacher between her and anyone else they happened to pass up the staircase. Their height difference was proving to be rather useful.

                Upon reaching the thick oaken door for the second time that morning, Khadgar pushed it open and motioned her inside. “Is this to your liking?”

                Anarchaia stepped inside and glanced around the room, running the bottom of her foot along the soft rug. “It’s kinda…bare.”

                Khadgar closed the door behind himself quietly. “Décor and furniture are things we generally leave up to the occupants. If there’s anything you’d like don’t hesitate to tell me and it can most likely be arranged.”

                She ran a palm over the quilt laid out over the bed. “Anything?”

                He lowered an eyebrow curiously. “Well,” he grunted, “not _anything_.”

                “Would it be too much to ask for a piano? Nothing extravagant.”

                “Oh?” Khadgar leaned against the door behind him and folded his arms across his chest. “You play?”

                “Yeah.” Anarchaia smiled somewhat, hopping onto the down-filled mattress and swinging her legs. She then looked down at her fingers and her smile disappeared once again. She tapped the tips of her thumb and forefinger together, feeling only the impact resonate down her bones but nothing more. “…at least I used to. Not sure if I can, now.”

                “Only one way to find out, no? We have a music room. Would you like to make a visit to it before I put in an order?”

                “That’s probably best.” After a moment, she furrowed her thin white eyebrows. “If I can muster the courage to leave this room.”

                Sighing quietly through his nose, Khadgar stepped to the end of the bed and rested his forearms on the sturdy footboard. “I understand that this is hard for you.”

                “At the risk of sounding rude, Mister Khadgar, you really don’t.”

                The corner of his mouth pulled into a half-grimace half-smile. “Fair enough.”

                Another trademark silence filled the space around them, lingering.

                “I’m sorry.”

                Her red pupils found his face. “You’re-…You’re sorry?”

                “I feel responsible.” He looked away and rubbed at the back of his neck. “For how you feel. How you look. It was my decision that caused it all.”

                Anarchaia swallowed hard, also looking away.

                Another silence followed.

                “You don’t need to be sorry,” she said mutedly.

                “You seem miserable. I do.”

                “I am miserable.”

                Khadgar then fully grimaced as if he’d been punched in the chest.

                “But it’s not your fault.” She brushed her hair away from her face as she often did. “You didn’t kill me.” She laughed quietly, insincerely. “Quite the opposite, really.”

                “It was a friend of mine that brought you back to us. I merely made the request.”

                Her interest in the process welled within her but she didn’t feel like pursuing that particular conversation. “The men who murdered me…”

                “All dead.”

                She turned again to look at him and this time did not turn back when their eyes met.

                “Well,” he continued, “all but the Gnoll. He was rather simple and seemed more hungry than evil. The men I was traveling with suggested he feed on the remains of his friends.”

                Anarchaia’s eyebrows raised slightly.

                “He did.”

                She crinkled her nose and looked away. “Did you kill them?”

                Khadgar hesitated, tapping the toe of his boot against the rug. The unpleasant memories flooded his mind. “I did.”

                “Thank you.” Anarchaia smiled. “Please don’t feel badly about me or what happened. Time moves forward. I already feel a little better.” A pensive expression crossed her face. “I saw a sign for a Library in the hallway. Are there any books about…what I am…there?”

                Khadgar _hmm_ ed. “My guess would be ‘no’. There aren't many like you in existence. If there are any books documenting anything I figure they’d all be in Karazhan.” He straightened suddenly, his eyes lighting up. “Ana?”

                Anarchaia leaned back until the bed caught her fall, stretching her limbs. “Mister Khadgar,” she responded pointedly.

                “Feel free to refuse…”

                She looked up at him cautiously.

                “Would you mind if I studied you?”

                Her eyebrows furrowed and her lips parted slightly but she otherwise said nothing.

                “Nothing invasive. You don’t have to agree to anything that will make you uncomfortable. I’d love to compile some notes on how you feel, how your life has changed, and perhaps publish them.” He cleared his throat, catching himself in the midst of his excitement of the notion. “I-If you’d allow me, that is.”

                Anarchaia mulled this over only briefly and shrugged. “I don’t see why not.” His grin that followed her answer made it hard not to smile herself. “You’re kind of a nerd.”

                Khadgar spread his palm over his chest. “I wear that term with pride.”

                She laughed softly and stared at the canopy above. “You never told me how old you are.”

                “I asked first if I remember correctly.”

                “I’m nineteen.”

                “I’m twenty-five,” he said somewhat sadly.

                She sat up on her elbows, her eyes obviously scanning over the silver strewn throughout his hair and the creases in the corners of his eyes. “ _Twenty-five_.”

                “Sure am.”

                “You look nearly fifty.”

                A mixture of hurt and understanding spread over his features and he sighed. “It’s a curse.”

                She snorted. “I’ll say.”

                “No no, it’s truly a curse.”

                Anarchaia tilted her head. “Who would want to curse you? You seem like the nicest guy…”

                A flush overpowered the hurt and understanding from before and he waved a hand. “Oh you’re really too kind. It’s a long story, however. Best left for some other time.”

                “Sounds exciting.” She turned onto her side and squished her cheek against her knuckles, getting the vibe he didn’t feel like pushing the topic. She brought her other thumb to her lips as if to chew on a nail in thought, then scoffed and lowered it back to the quilt when she found no nail to bite. A sigh escaped her and she flopped onto her stomach with a _poof!_ , burying her face into the blanket. “What about clothes?”

                “There are a few shops around Dalaran that you can browse. We can provide you with a voucher-” He stopped when she groaned quietly. “Oh. Right. Sorry.”

                Anarchaia groaned again at his apology and kicked her legs in frustration. “No. Don’t be. I’ll get over it eventually,” she mumbled. She was surprised to find that the blankets were not smothering her despite her face being pressed tightly against them.

                “Would it make you feel better to talk about it? I’m by no means an expert in the field of helping people through hardships but perhaps just speaking to someone may…ease the transition.”

                “I’ve only looked four people in the eye since being here. You’re as of yet the only one not to wince or cringe.”

                Khadgar frowned, folding his arms over the footboard and propping his chin atop them. “Why do you think that is?” he asked, opting to guide her through her own thought process rather than offer up his own.

                She turned her head only slightly to look up at him with her dimly glowing, red light. “I’m hideous.”

                His frown deepened, her words making it harder for him to restrain his own opinions. “And what makes you say that?”

                Her brow furrowed. “I’m a walking corpse. I have an empty eye socket. My forehead and limbs are covered in gigantic stitches. My skin is blue. _You can see my bones for Gods’ sakes._ ” She bit her lip as the tears threatened to make a return. “The fact that I was already a freak doesn’t help, either.”

                “You weren’t – aren’t – a _freak_ , Ana.” Khadgar could no longer restrain himself.

                “By definition.” She buried her face again.

                “If we’re going by definition then I suppose that makes me a freak as well.”

                She quickly turned to look at him again through her tresses. “I-I didn’t mean it like that.”

                Khadgar chuckled. “I know. It’s true, though. If my knowledge of the Common language is still up-to-date, that is.”

                “You look better than I do.”

                “That’s subjective.”

                “I’d rather be older than I look than dead.”

                “Also subjective.”

                She scowled, lifting her head to glare at him somewhat playfully. “You’re telling me you’d rather be dead than old-looking?”

                He grinned, his pearly teeth peeking through his lips. “I didn’t say that.”

                Anarchaia gave a grunt of frustration, reaching behind her to grab one of the pillows at the head of the bed. “Stop being so sly and indirect.”

                “Giving me commands? Here I thought _I_ was the mentor.” He couldn’t help but recoil and laugh when the pillow hit him directly in the face. Wrenching it out of her grasp, Khadgar pulled it away and out of her reach then lifted it in preparation to strike back.

                Anarchaia quickly pulled herself onto the bed and pushed herself against the headboard, armed with the remaining pillow should he actually retaliate. They stared one another down for a long moment. Finally, she hugged the pillow tightly against her chest and smiled into its fabric.

                The sound of her giggle caused him to lower his weapon. His face softened and he tossed it back to her. “I’ll see what I can do about your clothes.”

                She moved the pillow only slightly to show her small smile. “Thank you, Mister Khadgar.”

                “You don’t need to keep calling me that.”

                Her smile widened. “Thank you, _Master_ Khadgar.”


End file.
